


'Who Caked The Bucket?'

by ronans



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Baker Mickey, M/M, Minor Character Death, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2312639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronans/pseuds/ronans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly, Mickey doesn't care if you're grieving. You make him work overtime, you're subject to his insensitive jokes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Who Caked The Bucket?'

**Author's Note:**

> I... I watched a load of Impractical Jokers and this joke. This is... I made this.  
> And, I know, I've already done a destiel bakery fic but seriously, moody baker Mickey is just something that I needed.  
> I had to convert pounds to dollars and I don't really order cakes much so I consulted the internet and... it's an estimate.

Mickey’s in a shit mood. Last minute they’d received a call from a client saying that someone had died and it’s their funeral tomorrow and some complete idiot had dropped the cake they were supposed to be serving at the wake, etcetera, etcetera, and, basically, Mickey’s now doing overtime to get the fucking sponge cake finished. He doesn’t understand why the hell they couldn’t just go out and buy cake from a supermarket. The person was dead, not like they’d need to impress anyone or would be sampling the sweet themselves.

He’s stabbing the buttons on the microwave, getting the fondant to soften up a bit, when Jody pokes his head into the kitchen.

‘What?’ Mickey grunts, eyes following the way the microwave turns the bowl around.

‘I’m closin’ up. The guy should be here in about an hour for pick up, you’ll be done by then, right?’

Jody’s too fucking happy a person. It pisses Mickey off so much to look into his smile and hear his zen as fuck voice spout how passionate he is about cakes and just- He has to stop himself. Jody’s an alright guy, really. Mickey’s just annoyed he has to decorate a cake to fit a funeral when he could be at home with a beer. He never normally leaves after Jody.

‘Yeah, man. Just gotta decorate.’

Jody nods, grins, and gives him a thumbs up which no. That’s not okay. Mickey just nods back and then takes the fondant out of the microwave and prods it with the end of a spoon. Suddenly, the lights go out and he’s plunged into darkness. Fucking Jody.

‘Sorry! Forgot!’ Jody yells from the front of the bakery and the lights flicker back on in just the kitchen.

Mickey grumbles incoherently under his breath as he places the container on the counter and sticks a headphone in his ear. Soon, he loses himself in the mundane task of cake decorating, making sure it’s funeral friendly because he still wants to get paid, but he’s _so_ not in the mood for this morbid shit.

He’s done and it looks… well, like any other cake, really. It’s not his best work, but it’s pretty fucking good considering the black cloud that’s hanging over his head and the intense craving for a cigarette. He boxes it up and then glances up at the clock on the wall. It’s just gone 9:30 and he’s pretty sure the night baker’s due in soon to do the bread or some shit, he’s never actually met the guy and doesn’t know when he starts exactly.

He puffs out a breath and leans back against the steel worktop, tapping his fingers against his arms and waiting for the client. His music’s screaming in his ears. He doesn’t even really know what it is, it’s just something to occupy his ears and his brain and pass the time.

Mickey almost misses the sound of someone knocking on the back door, and he would have if he hadn’t been listening out for it.

‘Fuckin’ finally,’ he breathes, pushing off the counter to go and unlock the door. On the other side is a beautifully ruffled, tall, redheaded man. Mickey really, really tries to remember that this fucker’s the reason he’s stayed late but it’s pretty hard to when he’s looking at him right in the face. How dare he demand Mickey’s sympathy through funeral cake making and beauty. Nope. He’s not getting off easy. Again, he tries to focus rather than thinking about anything sexual he could relate to his internal comment.

‘You here for the dead Gallagher cake?’ Mickey asks bluntly. If he actually cared about what the other man thought about him, maybe he’d have dressed the greeting up a bit. Sure, he’s hot, but Mickey’s not going to go out of his way to soften the blow of his, usually blunt anyway, words.

Ginger Head, as he’s aptly decided to mentally call him, looks shocked and a little appalled by Mickey and gapes at him for a few moments before starting to stutter. ‘Yeah. I guess.’

Mickey tips his head to indicate that he should follow him into the kitchen where the white cake box is sat neatly on a counter. As they reach it, Mickey starts biting his bottom lip, wondering if he should _really_ push it. Ultimately, he goes for yes. Because he’s just that pissed off about staying at work for a few extra hours.

‘So, uh,’ he starts. The man glances up from where he’d been forlornly looking at the cake. Mickey mistakes it for him being unhappy with the design and _shit_ if that doesn’t spur him on. ‘Who caked the bucket?’

His face goes from heartbroken to livid in a split second. Mickey’s kind of scared and turned on at the same time. ‘Excuse me?’

He knows he shouldn’t, he really fucking shouldn’t, but he repeats himself. ‘Who caked the bucket?’

‘My mother,’ he spits out after a few moments of stony silence. Mickey can’t actually believe he answered the question, but he nods.

‘Alright, alright.’ As if the customer’s the one who’s in the wrong. It’s bad that it amuses him. He’s a terrible human being.

‘How much is it?’ he forces out, like it’s physically paining him to talk to Mickey.

‘What’s your name?’ Mickey asks, completely ignoring him. He doesn’t want to piss this guy off any more than he already has and he feels that calling him “Ginger Head” out loud might set him off more.

There’s so much fire in the dude’s eyes that Mickey’s concerned he’s about to burst into flames and he’s not quite ready to die. Plus, dying with a boner’s not really how he wants to go out.

‘Ian.’

‘Hey, Ian, I’m Mickey,’ he says with a smirk. Fuck, he’s such an asshole.

‘Hey, now how much does this fucking cost?’

Mickey’s mouth forms an ‘o’ shape at the hostility of Ian’s tone. He never apologises. Ian being subject to his special brand of humour shouldn’t be an exception. And yet- ‘Sorry, man.’

‘Yeah, whatever, just tell me how much.’

‘Forty dollars and fifty cents.’

Ian breathes shakily, like he’s controlling his anger, and reaches into the pocket of his black pea coat for his wallet. Mickey takes this time while Ian’s head’s down to rake his eyes over the other man. He’s wearing dark jeans and he can see a button up plaid shirt peeking out from beneath his coat. He’s clean, too. Much cleaner than Mickey thinks he’ll ever be able to be. That’s a worrying thought because Mickey’s the one who makes the cakes, not the customer. He shrugs it off and watches as Ian flicks through the bills in his wallet, pulling out a handful and shoving them into Mickey’s hands.

‘There,’ he murmurs, moving his eyes back to the cake. Mickey thinks he can see moisture building up in Ian’s eyes.

‘You okay, man?’

Ian’s head whips back around and he’s glaring at Mickey. ‘Fan-fucking-tastic, how about you?’

Mickey lifts his hands in surrender and then leans back against the counter. He regards Ian for a little while before speaking again. ‘Look, I was an asshole.’

Ian looks at Mickey again and he seems slightly surprised at the admission. ‘Yeah, you were.’

‘You close to your mom?’ Why the fuck is he talking to this guy? He could be outside having a smoke right now, on his way home and out of Ian’s life.

Ian shrugs and joins Mickey in leaning against the side, next to the cake. ‘I guess. I, uh,’ he lets out a small, humourless chuckle. ‘I shared the most of her traits out of all of my siblings, you could say.’

Mickey pulls his brows together but doesn’t push, for once. He scratches the back of his neck and peeks at Ian from under his lashes. He’s studying his shoes rather than looking at Mickey.

‘My mom died too.’ No, really, _what the fuck_ is he doing?’

‘Oh yeah?’ Ian’s voice is scratchy with emotion. Oh fuck, oh fuck.

He nods and scuffs his boot against the linoleum. ‘Mmm, she OD’d. Accident.’

Ian sucks in a sharp breath of air. ‘Mine killed herself.’

‘Rough. It sucks. But, uh, a funeral kinda like… gives closure?’

‘Yeah… Fucking Monica.’ Mickey’s eyebrows raise and he waits for Ian to continue. ‘My mom. She, uh, fucked off, came back… fucked off, came back, then fucked off for good.’

‘Rough,’ Mickey repeats. There’s a weird silence around them. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it’s sure as hell morbid and thick. Mickey’s busy thinking about how he should have just been nice and detached from the start and let Ian move on with his life without going through this painful shit with him.

‘I better…’ Ian vaguely motions towards the cake and then goes ahead and closes the lid of the box.

‘Yeah.’

Ian smiles weakly and taps the top of the cardboard, debating. Over what, Mickey doesn’t know.

‘You’re not as big of an asshole as I thought you were.’

‘Well I’m a big fucking bundle of fun once you get to know me,’ Mickey says, voice devoid of emotion, telling Ian that that truly wasn’t the case. It still makes Ian smile and that’s really fucking nice, considering the situation.

‘Do you… I mean…’ Ian pauses, chewing on his lip and still keeping up with the tapping. Mickey lifts an eyebrow, waiting. Finally, he talks again. ‘Do you wanna get coffee, or something?’

The shock of the question nearly makes Mickey wipe out. ‘What?’

‘Oh, shit, uh, don’t worry, forget I said anything.’ Ian’s cheeks are flaming red, more so than his hair. Mickey wouldn’t have pegged him as gay, but here they were.

‘No, wait, uh… Sure. What the fuck. Sounds fine.’ _Mickey doesn’t date, what the hell’s he doing. And another thing, he’d normally punch someone for even insinuating that he was gay_.

The way Ian’s face lights up a little bit at that though… Mickey doesn’t regret accepting his offer. Jesus, he needs to get laid, he’s turning too soft. Maybe it’s working around all these fucking girly ass cakes.

‘Okay. You want my number?’

Mickey rolls his eyes and pulls his phone out of his pocket, handing it to Ian. Within a minute he’s giving it back to him and the screen glows with the new addition to his contacts.

They don’t say anything, Ian just smiles at him before picking up the box and turning away from Mickey. All he can think as he watches him leave with the cake is that Ian has really fucking weird taste.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, don't know what I'm doing.


End file.
